Shotgun Sinner, WildEyed Jokers
by Captain Zombie
Summary: What do you get when you combine music, a genderqueer, Temps Aternalis, Death personified, the Umbrella Academy, some crazy sex, a swear-jar, and too much sugar? One hell of a mess. "M" for a reason. Don't like, don't read. AU of AS/D.  R R puh-leez.


Chapter 1: A Proper Introduction

_And I believe  
>That this may call for a proper introduction<br>And well, don't you see?  
>I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue . . .<br>_~Panic! At The Disco  
>"The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage"<p>

* * *

><p>I've always hated Temps Aternalis. I couldn't remember anything else other than working with psychos and clowns in yellow-and-red jumpsuits. I think that when they recruit people, there might be a hint of mind-wiping, but for all I know I could've been raised to work for Aternalis. Who knows?<p>

But of everything I hate about Temps Aternalis, I hate Hazel and Cha-Cha the most. _Hate_ them. They can go . . . well, I'd already told myself that I'd try to stop donating to the cuss-jar, so they can eat their machine guns.

But for some reason, I'm always running into them. I'll be in the middle of a gig, and they'll run in and be like, "Oh hey thar, Zander, what chu up to?" and they'll ruin _everything_ and eat all my mint chip ice cream. I _hate_ it.

They're scared of me.

You see, there's a way things work around here. There's the clowns in the jumpsuits that get called in for the normal jobs, and then there's the rest of us that get called in for the crazy-hard jobs. There's no mixing, no promotion. Nothing.

Except me.

You see, I used to be one of the clowns in the jumpsuits. And I was content with that. There was a bond between us that we could rely on. Yeah, there were a few that were total assholes (there goes a dollar), but we were all cool. But when Case 3467 went down, they decided that I was good enough to be one of the top dogs. With Hazel, Cha-Cha, Charlene, and .05.

.05 was my hero. I practically _worshiped_ the man. The way he did everything with killer precision, the way he _never missed a shot . . ._ the man was a legend. I couldn't believe that they thought I was on the same caliber as him. That's the only great part.

Then there's Charlene. Picture the stereotypical cheerleader bitch-hole (another dollar), make her a sociopath, give her a gun, and give her a skull mask that hid everything but the eyes. This chick was wack. I try to stay on her good side. Of course, there's the occasional brawl . . . and I'd be lying if I said that I won the majority of those.

Me? I'm not freaking special like .05 or Charlene. And I'm no psycho like Hazel and Cha-Cha. I'm just Zander. I happen to be an excellent shot. I don't question orders.

I just do my job.

* * *

><p>Did you know Hazel and Cha-Cha are gay? They are. I'm serious – if you watch them for longer than an hour, you can totally see how much these guys love each other. I'd almost be sweet if they hadn't twisted it in their own psycho way to make it nasty and gross. But I have first-hand experience. Like, for <em>real.<em>

(If you're not getting the hint, I've not only seen them in bed, I've been in bed _with_ them.)

It's not a nice thing, no. It's not what good girls are supposed to do. But who said I was nice? Or identified as a girl? (More on this later).

I'll tell you one thing, though – Hazel and Cha-Cha look _totally_ different without their masks on. I'd almost say they looked handsome, but then you gotta remember – psycho.

Hazel's black. Don't know if you were aware or just color blind (if you are, then I commend you). But not super black – milk chocolate. He looks to be around thirty or so. His slender body is marred with the tiniest of scars, thanks to the fantastical surgeons Temps employs. I've always admired his hands – they're large, but not overly so.

Cha-Cha is the perfect Nazi (in looks – they're both perfect Nazis in action): blond, blue-eyed, strong. He wasn't as lucky as Hazel in the scars department, and his chest was practically dripping with scar tissue (don't ask him about the one on the small of his back – that one was my fault, and a point of personal shame for him. Tee hee.) He looked to be about twenty-five or so, with a face rounded with baby-fat. Which made me the youngest looking, at about twenty-two.

They actual look cute in bed. Together, I mean – not while _in_ bed. (Oh hell no). You'd think they weren't crazy. With each other, they were incredibly sweet. With everyone else, they were their normal psycho-asshole selves. (Another buck in the cuss jar.) The only reason _I_ was there was because they were in denial of being gay and they wanted to show people they weren't. It was a total farce, actually. We get undressed, I get one, maybe two good humps, and then they're off on their own magic mattress ride. And I go into the bathroom and spend a good hour scrubbing off the smell of death, decay, and aftershave.

I know what you're thinking. "Zander, if you hate them so much, then why the smoof do you let them do this? You _want_ it, don't you?" Well, remember how I said that they were scared of me? Well, I'm just as afraid of them. I know what they're capable of. They've already told me that if I declined, I'd be dead as a doornail.

And I don't really feel the need to die a horrible death at the moment.

So I'm sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to get ready for my day. I can't even _tell_ you how long this takes sometimes. I'm just thankful that I remembered my duct tape – unlike the other day, where I had to troll Cha-Cha's room for some. _Jesus._

I begin by donning my pair of Temps-Aternalis-issue briefs and duct-taping my boobs down. Now, as I've somewhat stated, I don't identify as a girl – as a matter of fact, I'm not sure I identify as anything. I've never met anyone else with the problem in Temps, so I don't really know what to do about it. But taping down the boobs is done for the same reason as cutting my hair down to about an inch – necessity. I'm in the middle of some serious crap (doesn't count – not a cussword), and the last thing I want is getting something tore off . . . or something. (Plus, the duct tape acts as a pretty good guard against knives.) I know there are probably better ways of doing this, but for some reason, I prefer this method – tearing the tape off is painful, but the pain reminds me that I'm somewhat human.

Next come the leather pants. You heard me: _leather._ I'm just on the line of what people would call "chubby", so I have to use practically half a tub of Vaseline to get them on. If I don't, I'm practically _peeling_ the pants off later – and they end up getting torn. I don't have an unlimited budget for clothes, so I have to try and preserve them the best I can.

Before the shirt, I have to put on my knife harness. It's a device of my own design – think an old-time corset, only not as tight, and instead of the bone-like pieces, there're super-thin blades. You might think that this is a bit of overkill, but with Temps Aternalis (and Hazel and Cha-Cha), there's no such thing as overkill.

Next the shirt. It's just a normal black t-shirt. I know, I'm not cool-looking like .05, or trying too hard to be dapper like Hazel and Cha-Cha. But hey, it's my favorite shirt – feels good, hides my knives, and doesn't show blood. We're cool here.

I love boots. Combat boots, of course. The ones I have are black with daisies. Hell yeah! I know, it's super girly, but I freakin' love daisies. And you got anything to say bitch I'll throw you into traffic. (Bye-bye, dollar.)

On top of this, I have two bandoliers that cross over my hips with two sandalwood-handled pistols. Thanks to Hazel and Cha-Cha, I cannot _stand_ machine guns. So all I use are the pistols and my knives. On occasion, I have a closet-full of sawed-off shotguns that I'll raid, but it's usually just the pistols.

Then the red biker's jacket. Nothing special there – just stops road rash when I'm tossed around by something too big.

To finish off the effect of being Zander the mercenary, I have a mask. Not the huge creepy-looking ones others use, but this black strip that just adheres itself around my eyes. I've seen comic-book heroes use these before, and sometimes I can pretend that I'm a good guy and not just a hired thug.

So there you have it. Zander is dressed. Usually takes anywhere between fifteen minutes to forty-five, depending on the interruptions or where I'm at. Today, it took twenty. Huzzah.

I stepped out of Cha-Cha's bathroom into his bedroom. The room was littered with candy wrappers, cans (and two-liter bottles) of soda, and several long strips of dirty duct tape (from my previous adventures in the bedroom). It smelled _nasty_, too.

Cha-Cha was awake. Damn it. (Another dollar in the jar.) I wanted to get out of here. At least Hazel was still out for the count – in fact, I thought I might've seen a little drool on his pillow. Excellent – blackmail.

"Mornin', Zander!" he called. He always sounds so _chipper_ in the morning. Especially after getting laid. "How's the shower working?"

"Fine," I said shortly. "I'm leaving."

"Aw, you don't wanna _play_ some more?" he pretended to pout. That ass. (There goes another dollar.)

"Go fornicate with an animal," I growled, wrenching open the door to the hallway.

"I thought I just did!" he called after me. I suppressed a shudder and slammed the door behind me.

At the Office Building at the End of Time, there's like half a floor devoted to sleeping quarters. Everyone but the clowns get their own rooms – the clowns share a huge sleeping room with bunks and shi- stuff.

What, you thought that we at Temps Aternalis didn't sleep? We do. We eat, too. I don't know where you're getting _your_ info from, but I'm the original source. So there.

My room was across the hall and down one, and totally clean. And I mean _clean._ There wasn't even a speck of dust on _anything_. Not even in my bathroom.

Yeah, I had a bathroom. But I ain't walkin' these halls unless I'm ready for the day. I'm serious. It's bad enough I get abused by those idiots in animal masks – if I let anyone catch me undone in the hallway, I'm screwed. Literally.

I only have a mattress on the floor and a dresser. I have an assortment of dark-colored shirts and another two pairs of leather pants, but the only thing that adorns the top is my Swear Jar. Boss made me start one up a while back since I had a _really_ bad cussing problem. I mean it. It was _bad._ But I'm getting better.

As I stood there, I dug into the pocket of my pants and pulled out a couple crumpled bills and tossed them in. I don't get to keep this money – Boss takes it and puts it somewhere. Son-of-a-catfish.

In my room, I really have nothing to do. And my only options right now are reporting for duty or going and screwing with someone.

. . . . .

Reporting for duty it is, then.

* * *

><p>"Base" is where we report for duty. The entire room is white, with a row of chairs. The directions are on the floor – to the right is the past, and to the left is the future. (Which I never understood – if we're outside the edge of time, then how could there be a past or future for us?) We sit there, day in and day out, and wait for something to pop up so we can go take care of it.<p>

To my surprise, .05's already sitting there. He's smoking a smelly cigar, and he's got the look of a scheming demon. Even though I worship the guy, at the moment I didn't want to be anywhere _near_ him.

But he turned his beady eyes on me, and I froze. _Fuck._ (Oh man, that word's worth three dollars in the jar. _Jesus!_)

"You're Zander, right?" he asked.

" . . . Yeah?" I was somewhat surprised that he knew my name, and all-too wary of what he wanted.

"Hazel and Cha-Cha's fake fuck, yes?"

I rolled my eyes. So I guess there were a few more people in the loop than I thought. "If it _must_ be put that way," I sighed. It's sad when that's all I'm known for around here.

"Wanna take a correction for me?"

_What? _Was this man insane? You don't swap corrections. That's a step above saying _no._ And that's what gets people killed around this joint.

"Sure," I shrugged. "What'cha got?"

He handed me a folder filled with loose paper. "Some fool's trying to assassinate Adolf Hitler," he stated.

"Again?" I rolled my eyes again. Stupid idiots – they don't get that if Hitler died, then some other jerk-off with a postage-stamp mustache would just take his place. "Fine." A sudden question wormed its way into my head. "Why can't _you_ go?"

"I got stuff to do," he shrugged. "Got a problem with that?"

I sigh inwardly and shake my head. There's no use in pissing the man off.

Get this – he gets up, _tussles my freakin' hair_ like we're in _Leave It To Beaver,_ and says, "Thanks, kid," before walking off.

Am I missing something here? I think I am. I don't appreciate feeling like I'm missing something. But hey – it's something to do, eh?

**Dollars in the swear jar: 9  
>Closer to insanity: Oh yes.<br>**

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><p><strong>Hey guys! How goes it? Well, as you can see, I'm back (in black! *laughs at ACDC reference*) **

**Well, this is a bit of a test piece. If I get some good feedback and some requests for more, then I'll post another chapter. If not . . . then I guess I won't? I dunno. I'm just flexing my writing muscles. I haven't written anything in forever. I'm writing this in the same style as some of my other stuff: a song for each chapter, so by the end it's got an awesome soundtrack. Happy days, da?**

**(And I'm just saying this now – flames will be used to heat my house. I made this "M" for a reason. And if you don't like it, then go whine about it somewhere else.)**

**SHOW ME SOME LOVE!  
><strong>


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